True Born (3 page)

None of them, not a one, ever catch sick.

Evolve or die
. That’s what the True Borns have done, ever since the Plague began. The preacher and his people have a point.

“Can’t be,” Margot told me, shaking her head.

“Why not?” I asked, but I knew why. Margot and I, we look perfectly normal. We haven’t sprouted fur or feathers. Our eyesight isn’t 40/40. We are as human as our mother and father, bone and blood.

Lying back on the white Protocols chair, trying to forget the uncomfortable pricks of the needles, I can’t help but think about the stranger again. The sheen of bright emerald rolling over his eyes. As I’ve done a hundred times since yesterday, I dismiss the possibility that he’s one of them. You can tell True Borns just by looking at them, right?

And yet…

Nurse finishes with a big old Miss Dominion smile as she straps the blood into a tester case and tells us to hang tight while Clive comes for us. Then disappears with a clack of her heels.

This is not Protocol. This is not how it’s supposed to go. Unlike the poor rabble, we of the Upper Circle are tested every year. Not for longevity, but for traces of the disease. Some of the more superstitious are under the impression the Plague might be catchy, like a virus. We know Clive, have known him for years. He’s not supposed to come get us. The nurse is supposed to bring us to him. The blood can wait. The rest of the tests can’t.

She leaves anyhow. I eye Margot uneasily until a few seconds later there’s a knock at the door. A dark, swarthy man with a huge dimpled grin peeks in. Margot lights up.

“
Clive!
”

“There are my special ladies,” he says. From behind his back he pulls two roses, one blue, one white, and hands one each to us.

“Thank you,” Margot mumbles over her white rose. A suspicious stain spreads across her pale cheek.

“You’
re welcome,
” Clive says. “You ladies ready for your tour in the spotlight?” He hands out a line like this every time. We climb down and follow him through the long, antiseptic halls of the Clinic, Clive and Margot chatting away like old pals. As he guides Margot into a room with metal walls, metal ceiling, metal floor—all the better to keep things sterile, he’s told us—I stop at the door.

“Clive, did Protocols change?”

His eyes shift restlessly. “Naw, we’re just a bit short staffed this month. You know how it is,” he says, grim-faced.

I nod. It’s the one answer we can’t argue with. We all know Lasters are becoming extinct. In the past two decades alone the population of the planet has dwindled by half.

And when I lie down and stare into Margot’s eyes as we’re wired in and put through the paces, I’m more scared than I ever have been.

Something deeply weird is going on.

Chapter Three

The air feels charged as we glide down the stairs a little after three and wait outside our father’s study. Margot beckons me into the alcove just off the heavy wooden sliding doors that lead to his sanctuary. Her voice hitches as she pulls on my pinky, a promise pledge. “No matter what’s in there.”

My smile is crooked and weak. “No matter what,” I say.

No one needs a special gift or a crystal ball to tell us that something is going on. We hear a cough from inside. The door draws slowly open, revealing Shane. A man sits across from our father on the couch, the obligatory polite coffee untouched before him on the long glass coffee table. Another man and a woman stand behind him, giving off the alert and frighteningly efficient air of good mercenaries. Their eyes are peeled on us as we walk into the room, like lancets on our skin as they study, dissect, memorize our descriptions and stats.

But the roaring in my ears, loud as a drone, and the sudden crazy lurch and tilt of my stomach, is not due to our father having hired new bodyguards without speaking to us. The man standing behind the couch is
him
.

No one should be so handsome, I think as I drink him in. A shag of sunlight blond frames a pair of cat’s eyes, too blue, the color of indigo, twinkling now with something like amusement. My gaze drops to those chiseled cheekbones I’ve been daydreaming about, ending with a strong chin. I take in the faded blue jeans, the black shirt open at the collar. I clench my stomach against the sudden butterflies, nod to him and the woman, who at this point is just a bundle of details: long dark hair, pale skin, green eyes that laugh at me.

The seated man stands and the remainder of my breath tumbles out of me. It’s not just that he’s immense. He is well over six feet, although slender in that athletic way. It’s not even that he’s gorgeous, although he’s that, too. As his gaze sweeps Margot’s face, then my own, with eyes the color of a storm sky, I realize what it is. It’s not often I see an aura of power shimmering around someone. Stepping back, I collide with Shane’s chest. He grasps my arms and holds me there.

The tall man doesn’t move. Just tilts his head like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do. I catch Margot’s frantic gaze. She tries not to be conspicuous, but I’ve panicked her. I can feel her heart beating too fast. I take a deep breath and smile.

“
Hello.
” I bob a small curtsy. Beside me, inside me, Margot’s heartbeat slows.

Even though he says it softly, the man’s voice rumbles from his chest like thunder when he speaks. “Hello, Lucy.”

So, he knows which sister is which. That’s a neat trick.

“Sir.” I nod again. My eyes slide to the man standing behind him. He isn’t acting like an ordinary merc. Mercs keep their eyes peeled to the world around their charges. This man studies me, bold as daylight, without even trying to hide the fact.

I’m so distracted it takes a moment for me to realize our father is speaking. “Sit down, girls. I want to introduce you to Mr. Nolan Storm.”

No mention of the two others. Just Mr. Storm. I perch like a nervous cat on the settee. Margot, outwardly more serene, tucks in beside me. If they have been in negotiations, I’d have to say it didn’t go as our father planned. He is in a rare foul mood. His cheeks bloom red while his eyes glitter like diamonds, ready to cut us. We sit like ice princesses, stone faced, hands in laps.

“Girls,” our father’s words are clipped and efficient, “Mr. Storm is a security expert. He and his team will be providing the family remote security in the coming days. It was important that you meet today so that you aren’t alarmed should one of them appear to escort you home.”

I take turns with Margot glancing at Shane from beneath our eyelashes. His jaw bulges and twitches as he tries to control himself. He won’t like this, interference from outside.

“Lucy, Margot.” In his pressed linen suit, oozing money, Nolan Storm could be one of our Circle. He’d be the most popular man in town, I think to myself as I watch him move. He can’t be much older than thirty, but when Mr. Storm talks, he takes up all the space in the room. The air shimmers around him, as though it’s waiting to split. I blink, trying to see beneath the strange illusion. Our father glares. He likes the help to be docile and speak only when spoken to. “You must be wondering why your father has hired a remote security team, since you already have a crack team here at home.” Shane puffs up. Crisis averted. “There have been no specific threats as yet, but we feel certain there might be one day soon. We’d rather be prepared than sorry.”

Margot grabs for my hand. “Is something happening?”

Storm nods. “You may have noticed the number of zealots camped out around your gate has grown quite large of late. We have reason to believe their ranks are organizing, though for what purpose, we can’t say. Your father just wanted to be prepared, and rightfully so.” He tips his head toward our father. Score another point for Nolan Storm. “For whatever agenda they might want to advance.”

Margot blinks. “Do you think they want to hurt us?”

“Do you really want to wait to find out? The Plague isn’t flaming out. Times are uncertain.”

True enough. We’ve given it more thought than our classmates, but even we haven’t fully considered what will happen when the only people left are a handful of rich, spoiled Splicers, some True Borns, and a spoon’s worth of very desperate Lasters. I know we’re already seeing it, only in smaller scale. But is anyone paying attention? Just the other week our mother tried to keep the NewsFeed away from us. There’d been a hostage taking in Bremen, one of the rich suburbs north of us. An entire family, including a six-month-old baby, had been slaughtered by a Laster crew looking for a big payday for a Splice and dice. It was so stupid. All those unnecessary deaths. I thought everyone knew: for the past few years all money has been barcoded and tracked. By our people, the Splicers of the Upper Circle, the people who run everything. Had the Lasters escaped—the NewsFeed only said the fugitives were apprehended at the scene, but we know that means fried—they would have been turned down at every clinic except Black Market. And who knows what dirty genes would be sewn into your body there?

Margot and I are aware of the strange divide between us and the rest of humanity. We are the lucky ones who sit in our gated mansion. We stare from our windows and listen to the peppery sound of gun wars as we watch the world burn. Fires break out all over Dominion like they’re on rotation: for the last three years the power grid has been shut down for all but the very rich, so people have been pulling down whatever they can to heat their homes. There aren’t enough people to put out the fires. Homes like ours—high fenced, set far back and away from our neighbors—are life preservers on an endless, burning ocean.

Still, we aren’t completely sheltered. It’s not unusual for us to run across bodies in the street even though Dominion has gangs of people who go around collecting and burying as many as they can. Most of the corpses are dead of Plague, but a good number bear marks of violence. Jagged valleys ripped into chests; faces blown apart. In their blue HAZMAT suits, white handkerchiefs covering their faces, the cleanup crews look like soul-stealing bandits as they rove the streets looking for pickups. The city pays them by the body, and plenty say this has turned good men into murderers. But mostly the Rovers take the job for the pocket treasures they score from the Lasters. Even so, there aren’t enough of them, we’ve heard—not enough Rovers, and not enough dead richies to feed them. We are paying attention. But there’s nothing we can do to stop any of this. An image of the boy holding up his
Evolve or Die
message flashes through my mind. He was so rebellious and hateful as he made his stand on top of a car and held his sign. But then, why wouldn’t they hate us?

“What do you think they want?” I’m curious to hear what Mr. Storm will say.

His eyes flatten me with a look. “Power.” It’s so simple it feels inescapable. “Whoever doesn’t have it wants to take it away from those who do.” Storm’s eyes shift to our father, then back to me. I nod slightly. Mr. Storm knows exactly what’s going on out there. And we’re sitting ducks.

I glance at our father, who frowns at Storm as though he’s said too much. My eyelashes quake with effort as I try not to look too long at the magnetic young man standing behind Storm. And fail. Which reminds me…. Not taking my eyes away from the blond merc I ask, “Mr. Storm, may I ask what ‘remote security’ means? Are you going to tail us?”

Storm shakes his head, his mouth a firm line. “No, I’m going to give you these.” He fishes two flat objects out of his pocket, handing one to Margot and one to me with long, calloused fingers. I touch the screen and the display flutters to life. It’s a pre-prog, but I see no apps and only one number. “Memorize the number in case you lose the phone. If you ever think you’re being followed, call the number and don’t ditch the phone.”

I stare at Storm over the blinking display. “There’s no name. Whose number is it?”

He doesn’
t answer.
“Someone will pick up, day or night. Tell whoever answers what’s happening, if you can. We’ll extract you.”

“Who are you really?” I ask, not sure which of the strange men I’m asking, and surely not quietly enough. My father’s quick intake of breath is enough to know I’ve crossed the line.

He graces me with a crooked smile anyhow. “Right now, sweetheart, all you’ve got to know is that I’m your friend.”

We’re dismissed a few moments later. I stop in the hallway, pressing myself against the wall.

“You all right, Lu?” Margot asks.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Hot streaks of…
something
…jitter through my veins, and for the first time I recognize what until now I’ve only ever known secondhand from my sister. It feels as though my safe and perfect life is crumbling down around my ears, and I’m deaf to all but the roar, blind to all but a pair of indigo eyes. Eyes belonging to a
merc
, I remind myself, whose name I don’t even know.

...

It’s the waiting that gets to us—the endless waiting for explanations and answers that never come, days that feel a lot like holding out for some mythical Plague cure. Days after our meeting with Nolan Storm, Margot and I pack our school bags, go to school, come home again. Sunrise, sunset. Silence in between.

And not a single glimpse of my blond stranger.

It wouldn’t be so bad, or maybe I’d call it typical, except that I can’t shake the feeling that the secrets are mounting. Our father is more distracted than usual. We notice this because he forgets to be harsh with us on the long morning drives as Shane drops us off at school before taking Father to his office at the Capitol building.

Absently I run my fingers in my little purse until they clasp hard, cold plastic. The phone with its one number rides to school with me every day. At night it sits under my pillow, never too far from reach—much like my memory of meeting the merc with the sunlight hair, stamped indelibly in my brain.

“Girls.” Our father suddenly stares at us with an odd expression.

“Yes, Father,” we reply automatically.

“Something to keep in mind for your Reveal.”
Our Reveal?
Father doesn’t bother with the details of things like our coming-of-age party. And it’s still a good six weeks away.
Unless there is something he needs to tell us
. My stomach churns with horror. I grip my sister’s hand tightly between us, all thoughts of happiness fled.

Our father’s gaze wanders out the window moodily, whatever he wanted to tell us forgotten. It must be bad. I can’t stand the suspense. “What is it, Father?”
I prompt.

He frowns back at us, the spot above his nose crinkling in displeasure. “We
’
ll soon be hosting a very important business associate from Russia. I have to tell you”—our father leans over his knees, his black leather gloves snapping against the fabric of his pants as he stares intently at us—“this guest is the most important guest we have ever entertained.” Beside me, Margot taps a slim finger against her wrist in exclamation. Our father has never sounded like this before. He pins us to our seats with eyes of fire and ice. “He
wi
ll be present at your Reveal. In fact, he may escort one of you. I will expect you to play your part to keep him happy.”

“Yes, Father,” we say again. Waves of disappointment and relief wash through us. Not the worst news, then: not the “L” word.
But what of this?

“Is there something we can do to help you, Father?” I say quietly.

A small smirk folds up the corners of his mouth. “Yes,” he drawls, leaning back in his seat. “You can be the perfect daughters I raised. Stay out of trouble”—his eyes laser into ours—“and when the time is right, do your duty to the family.” His words send shivers down my spine.

I sit in shocked silence beside my sister as our father goes back to staring out the window. Outside, Dominion rolls by in all its wrecked decadence.

“Father,” Margot chirps beside me.

“Hmm?” Our father chokes the life out of his gloves as he watches the streets. There is a strange moodiness in the air today, like a storm is about to burst. We pass the checkpoint fashioned of chicken wire manned by one of Grayguard’s blue-clad mercs.

“Deirdre Phalon told us that the Feeds were wrong. She said there’s an insurrection going on. Something to do with the preachers and the rabble.”

Our father shakes off his vagueness in an instant and trains cold eyes on Margot. “Where did you hear that?”

“Deirdre Phalon,” she says again.

“And where, pray tell, did Deirdre Phalon, that insipid airhead, hear that?” His jaw clenches with anger. I wish Margot would stop, but she’s always been the braver one. The one who asks what she shouldn’t.

“Her parents, I reckon,” her voice trails off.

“You shouldn’t listen to idle gossip, Margot.”

“But you’d know, wouldn’t you, Father?” I chime in. My hand finds Margot’s on the seat between us. I cover her fingers. Our signal that I’m coming in for a rescue. “They’d tell you the truth.”